


devotion’s desire.

by projectfreelancer



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Religious Conflict, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/projectfreelancer/pseuds/projectfreelancer
Summary: a character study of raphael santiago and how nothing goes the way he wants.side of simon/raphael.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off of raphael's past in Saving Raphael Santiago and the show's characterization.
> 
> implied sexual assault between camille/raphael (the biting being sexual, that is.)
> 
> this was for a friend's birthday, so it's a little rushed!

Raphael knows disappointment well. Feels it tug at his guts, harp at his heartstrings, giggle in his chest. He knows that things never go the way you wish them to. In place of a soul, he wonders if disappointment brews within him.

 

(Fond memories of his mother ache inside him. Hair lush, eyes soft spoken, sharp face that is nothing like his own. Love is an emotion he knows well, wrapped up in his single golden cross. He imagines her face, and does not want to think of his own.

His mother had believed in him when he said he was going to kill the vampire haunting their neighborhood. She had set her hands upon his cheek, motherly love enshrouding him, said, “I’ll pray for you, my love,” in sweet Spanish. If he tries hard enough, he can remember exactly how she sounded. The memory fades as he gets older. He knows disappointment _well._

He had not been successful in killing the vampire. Too arrogant, too much confidence etched into him. A sin of pride. The vampire had bit down and—his mother always said vampires were _abominations._

The vampire expects him to be his sidekick, second-in-command. Raphael does what is right and kills him. Vampires are monsters that do not deserve to be trusted. As the man bursts into sunlight and the ashes shrivel, Raphael wants to go with him. Feels the need and ache to follow after him. One step closer, and this could be done. He wonders if he’d go to Hell. If God would look at him, resentment bitter in his eyes, spit at the monster he’s become. Damn him to an eternity of suffering and torture. He would deserve it all. 

He lives. He feeds off of his own friends (monster; abomination) and can barely feel guilt as the blood drips from his fangs. Hunger shatters at him, wrings its claws around him, and he cannot stop to care of who these boys used to be. But then the warlock is there, pushing Raphael away, cradling the dead bodies, worry cold, asking if the dead boys are Raphael, and Raphael can only laugh, says, “I’m Raphael,” and the laugh feels like venom in his mouth. Raphael is just as much of a dead boy as they are now. And he’s spilling out everything that happened to Magnus, tripping over his own words, admitting to all that has happened, and when he tries to disappear into the sun, Magnus is holding him back. He wants to fight, tries to, skin itchy with desire for death.

“Just let me do it! I’m just a monster!” He is yelling, and he can feel tears drip onto his face, mix with the droplets of blood on his lips, and he stills. “I’m a monster…” He says it like a hearty revelation—the way you confess your sins to a priest behind the confessional, the way one says _God._

And he is whispering, trying, “Please forgive me, G—” but he is choking, the words slicing his throat, and he cannot say it. **God**. His heart falters, no longer beating, and the Warlock lessens the grip on him.

“Vampires cannot say that word at first. But you can learn how to. You’re not a monster.” And the man is touching Raphael’s shoulder, trying to console him in any way. “If you come back to live with me for a bit, I can teach you. We can get you under control. Maybe you can go live with your mother again afterwards. She’s the one who sent me to look for you.”

Raphael feels more tears cross his eyes at the mention of his mother. What she would think to see her son drinking the blood of his childhood friends. To see him become a demon; repulsive; an abomination worthy of eternal damnation.

Raphael is saying, “Okay,” all he can get out. He does not think of motherly hands caressing his curls, singing soothing lullabies, loving him. Abominations are not deserving of such love.)

 

(Living at Magnus’ is different. Not what Raphael expected. Expected it to all be more magical, living with a warlock. What he doesn’t expect—

“Raphael,” the warlock is calling out, voice always in that singsong tone. “How many times have I told you to clean up after yourself?”

Raphael looks up from his holy books (how much they burn to touch; how he relishes in the pain) to see what the man is talking of. There’s a mess of the books spread around the house: Bibles, Lost Gospels, anything of devotional flavour he could find in Magnus’ libraries strewn from room to room.

Raphael is quirking an eyebrow, amusement evident in his voice, teasing, “I thought I was here to learn.”

“I wasn’t aware you didn't know how to make a mess. Obviously you’ve learned rather quickly.”

Raphael feels comfort in their daily banter. The insults, the yells, the snark: all roll off his tongue with ease. He feels memories of his brothers ache in his chest, somewhere hidden behind his lost soul, but he doesn't chew on the memories for long. He is here, they are there, and he is making himself a living boy again so they can be safe with him. If Magnus notices the softness in his eyes after Raphael makes a chide comment, neither dare to mention it.)

 

(Learning how to pray is the hardest part, if anyone were to ask Raphael.

Holding his golden cross is easy. The pain simmers in his grasp, smoke embellishing his skin, scars bruising. It’s a sharp, sour pain, but only in that spot.

Prayer is different. Even with a breathless whisper, it sears within you. Your throat is drenched in indescribable hunger, lost soul clambering within you, everything burning bitter.

He tries so hard. Does not give up, sun trying to enter the room from behind the darkest blinds. Been at this for days; wants to be poetic, say its **forty days; forty nights**. His heart feels cold.

 _Hail Mary_ —

His throat clenches, knives piercing everything within him. His folded hands burn as if he has dipped them into liquid sunshine. He takes a useless breathe in and prepares.

 _Our Fath_ —

He cannot even finish the holy name. Skin running cold and on fire; a sinner’s heat burning within him.

_Hell._

Of course he can say that. His new home. Where he’s banished to for all of eternity.

_Lucifer._

God’s enemy. He cannot defile God’s name, cannot dare let an abomination say it, but he can say God’s ultimate enemy. And though resentment runs deep inside him at the revelation, there is warmth. It is not God, but it was someone close to him. He has to be getting closer.

With hands clapped in determination, it goes: G—. G—. G—. G—. G—. **_God._ **

When it finally leaves his tongue, he almost does not notice it. But when he says it again, slower, caressing his throat, no longer shivering in pain, there is no belittling the smile that agraces his face. It is a simple achievement, but it gives Raphael hope.

It is something he has not felt in awhile.)

 

(He gains control of himself. He visits his mother, his family, embraces them, and it is all over too soon. His visit erodes, and he goes to live with Camille afterwards.

And from that point on, it is as if he lives constantly with a stake pointed to his heart.

Camille is, in Raphael’s own over dramatic phrasing, the worst thing to happen to him after being turned.

He paints her as a Medusa; snakes coil around her, dancing joyfully, her eyes a piercing wooden dagger. Look too closely, too intensely, and you turn to stone. Her tongue is a knife, and when she rips open his veins, he pleads, _i don’t want this,_ but her laugh is demented silver, and her fangs are in him, and—

It is not hard for him to become second-in-command. Lily had already been impressed with him. He was quick-witted, organized, a careful leader, with a hint of vampiric arrogance. Many do not say it, except behind fanged whispers, but plenty prefer him over Camille. He relishes in the feeling of their loyalty, yet makes no fast efforts to overthrow her.

He is careful; a leader must be. He files away every crime she commits, files away every complaint on her; keeps track of any move she makes. Closes his eyes and can almost imagine a list of her sins. She reeks of gluttony and lust, and to imagine that Magnus ever loved her makes his stomach revolt.

And as a good leader, he knows when to be a good follower. Her heels ring against the tiles, a sharp sound. “Find a way to get to the Fairchild. _Any_ way,” she says, now paused to look into Raphael’s eyes. “Is that clear?”

She is everything he hates in a person. Cruel, full of unending desire, wrecked with selfishness. Demanding respect and loyalty with no claims to it. He imagines his claws sinking into her; a stake burning the life out of her. But all he does is nod. A good leader is a good follower, too.

Raphael ends up catching the mundane. Simon. He knows it’s not the right thing to do, knows he’s at the whim of Camille. To deny is death, to agree is death. A nail in each hand.

He pries one out and helps the boy escape. It is only to save face; to not start a war; to protect his clan. The boy means nothing to him, an annoyance, and the Fairchild is better off with The Cup than Camille is. He lets the boy leave because he's a _leader._ And when the sun’s flames lap at his skin when Wayland opens the door, he cries out, and the pain is soothingly familiar.

And when Camille finds out, her precious toy long gone, no chance of finding the cup, Raphael is the one punished. She licks across his veins, buries her fangs within him, and feeds.

He does not say no, does not plead, does not bargain. Camille takes what she pleases, and he is a good leader. Disappointment sits heavy inside.)

 

(He finds the mundane on the floor, throat bleeding, and his chest goes heavy. He knows immediately that it is Camille’s doing. How he tried to scare the boy off, warn him, showcase his fangs. Anything to stop this. Perhaps if Raphael had just—

There is no time to place blame. He lifts the boy, awake and drowsy, into his arms. Drained of blood, yet still warm. Raphael thinks of how he has not felt the sun in ages.

And the boy, _Simon,_ is looking at him, tired wariness etched onto his face. “Are you going to kill me?” His voice is quiet, drowned, and Raphael feels guilt boil him.

“No, I’m taking you to your friends.”

The answer does not seem to ease the human, fingers holding tightly onto Raphael, yet body still tense. Raphael wants to know how to handle this, how to tell him it’ll be okay, try to comfort him, but that is not how he leads. He is a master of politics, not a player of emotions.

And when he feels Simon go limp in his body, truly dead, he kills down the feelings of despair, guilt, rotten regret inside. He knows the shadowhunters could kill him on sight if they choose to, and a part of him begs for it.)

 

(When Simon is saying, teeth clenched, “You’re a _monster,”_ Raphael does not feel anything. He does not recall memories of soft-haired mothers, golden dangling crosses, warlocks saving vampires. He does not remember the pride in feeling pain when holding a religious text. Does not remember the taste of cursed prayers on a cursed tongue. No self-hatred, no regret, no guilt, no loathing, no disappointment.

Simon continuing, “ _I’m_ the monster,” is when it hits Raphael. Every memory bursts inside him, feels it almost go up in flames in the heat of a sun. There are claws inside him, clutching his heart, begging him to save this boy, too. Tell him, _it’ll be alright. It gets easier._

He tries. Offers him a home, Raphael’s own home, blood, training. It is what a leader does: help those in need, help those who should follow.

Simon does not follow. He grasps at Raphael’s jacket and throws him against the van.

Hurt buries inside him, but Raphael knows. Eventually, he must come back.)

 

(Simon does come back. And from there, it is a whirlwind. Raphael knows that growing gardens of hope in his mind only lead to empty crops, but there is— _something_ about Simon. As if Raphael wants to know everything about him, know how he's handling his transition, how he feels. Wants him to pay attention when they’re training, dismissing him when he doesn’t. Wants the boy’s attention. Wants Simon to look at him, see how much Raphael understands what it’s like.

He imagines helping him often. Imagines teaching Simon how to pray. Raphael reads the Torah on his own time, trying to inhale any knowledge in case Simon asks him. Imagines teaching Simon how to control his thirst, how to use his encanto, wants to teach the boy _everything._ Tries to get him to stay in the hotel, be beside Raphael, an _advisor,_ to learn their way of living. Feels it ache within him; this sort of fascination he has not felt in ages. Not sure if it’s because of the way Simon knows they're both monsters, the way Simon reeks of lonesome self-hatred, or the way Simon smiles so openly, as if he impersonates the sun. Raphael is not a master of emotions, but he would try to be, if this man asked it of him.

For the first time in decades Raphael tastes hope and does not feel thirsty afterward.)

 

(Raphael sees it coming. The blackmail. The betrayal. Judas sauntering towards Jesus, laying a passionate kiss of twisted romance onto his lips, and feeling guilt as soon as Jesus is strung away. The Biblical tale feels far from Raphael, eyes set on Simon. The fascination swirls inside of him, yet now it turns spoiled. Sinister. As if Raphael does not deserve any sort of hope; happiness; contentment.

And neither does Simon. They’re _both_ monsters; both repulsive; both abominations; both soulless. Raphael wants to cement that into Simon’s mind, that he can play with the shadowhunters all he wants, but there will never be anyone who understands the hunger like their own clan. And if Simon puts their safety on the line, then Raphael is a good leader. He knows what must be done.

Hisses, “Kill them”, fangs perched, but all too quickly, the plan is dissolved. The shadowhunters, Camille, Simon. They all get away. Raphael wishes he felt disappointment, but all he feels is relief. Never wanted to kill the man—never wanted this to happen. Just for Simon to understand him. Relief edges his heart, and he feels weak.

He tries not to think of Simon when he is gone. Should have known from the minute he saw him it would end this way. Should have pushed the feelings aside.

  
Raphael understands now why Judas killed himself after betraying Jesus. He does the sign of the cross, whispers a soursweet prayer, and asks for forgiveness.)

**Author's Note:**

> maybe one day i can actually write REQUITED saphael........ one day.


End file.
